


Fool For Your Love

by SadArticle



Category: The Scarlet Pimpernel - Baroness Orczy
Genre: Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:55:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23910439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SadArticle/pseuds/SadArticle
Summary: 'Twenty-four hours after the simple little ceremony at old St. Roch, she had told him the story of how, inadvertently, she had spoken of certain matters connected with the Marquis de St. Cyr before some men--her friends--who had used this information against the unfortunate Marquis, and sent him and his family to the guillotine.' The timeline of Sir Percy and Marguerite's marriage never made a lot of sense to me, so this is my attempt to set the details straight! Much angst in Paris between the newlywed Sir Percy and Lady Blakeney ensues.
Relationships: Marguerite Blakeney & Armand St. Just, Marguerite Blakeney/Percy Blakeney
Kudos: 12





	Fool For Your Love

_Percy_

Outside the streets were beginning to come to life. Market day started just as early in Paris, even when the food was scarce and the men and women were caught up in the unrest of the times. Percy lay awake, listening to the rumble of cart wheels and the weary tread of both horses and humans along the main road outside his apartments.

He turned his head towards the windows. Grey light was beginning to filter through the lace curtains, chasing the shadows of the first floor room and revealing the time-worn panelling of the walls and the few pieces of furniture _._ Something stirred beneath the fresh white bed linen alongside him, and Percy became aware that he was being watched. He tilted his head still further and met the wide blue gaze of two brightly wakeful eyes, peering at him from over the covers. Curls brighter than the light afforded by the window crowned the pillow next to his, the red-gold of her hair shining as a corona around her face.

_My wife_ , Percy thought to himself as he smiled at her. More than the sound of the words, he loved what it meant to be able to say them – that she had chosen him, that she loved him. Marguerite St Just, who, in her position as the leading actress of the National Theatre, had reigned over her Parisian coterie for five years with her beauty, charm and wit. And just twenty hours earlier, she had forsaken that lead role to become Lady Blakeney.

Percy was not blind to the fact that the _Comédie-Française_ was crumbling, with the future of its players dependent upon whether they chose king or nation as their audience. It was also impossible to ignore that the Paris so familiar to Marguerite’s society of pure ideals and enthusiastic discussion was making way for a more aggressive leadership. Yet despite the radical changes that were already eroding Marguerite’s firm footing in higher circles than her own, Percy admired the bravery she had shown in choosing a new life. After all, what could she really know about him?

‘Good morning, Lady Blakeney,’ Percy announced, turning to his new bride.

‘ _Dieu_ , that sounds imposing!’ Marguerite exclaimed. ‘I hope I shall grow into the title!’

He laughed and reached for her slender hand that rested on the pillow beside her head, pressing his lips to her fingers. ‘It is not such a title, as I am sure a duchess or two will subtly remind you.’

‘When we are in England?’

His brows twitched into a small frown. ‘Does that worry you, Margot?’

‘No –’ She began, glancing at her hand in his. ‘Not the duchesses, at least!’

It was easy to forget sometimes that, at twenty-four, she was still so young. Marguerite had lost her parents at an early age; an absence impossible to fill, as Percy knew from personal experience. Raised by her brother Armand, in some ways she had matured perhaps faster than would a girl with the gentle influence of a mother and the wise authority of a father. Brother and sister had moved to Paris, under the guardianship of their aunt, until, at the tender age of eighteen, Marguerite’s burgeoning talent on the stage had swiftly developed into a coveted career with the _Comédie-Française_. Balancing her precocious and early entrance with a generous nature and a willingness to learn from her contemporaries, she soon became the darling of the theatre, and she and Armand had been able to move into apartments on the Rue de Richelieu. Four years after that, the highlight of the young actress’ career came at a performance at Versailles, where she had been personally requested by the Queen – and where she had first entranced the young English milord.

Yet Marguerite was still essentially a girl at heart, for all the rapid developments in her young life: the woman with the strong presence on the theatre stage – the opinionated speaker at _salon_ gatherings – the leader of fashionable society – each external facet of her personality was no less a role than when she read _Phedré_. Percy thought he could understand her worries over leaving behind the familiar for the unknown, especially as she would essentially be facing this change alone. Naturally, he would support her, and try to protect her from the worst initiations of English high society, but he would still only be her English husband – part and parcel of the alien culture and lifestyle to which she would have to adjust. He could only hope that their love would be sanctuary enough.

‘My poor Margot,’ he murmured, ‘there’s hardly been time to pause for breath in this little romance of ours, has there?’ He leaned across to plant a gentle kiss into the soft waves of her hair.

Marguerite pressed her free hand to her husband’s face, where Percy’s rose to envelope it. Their gaze locked, his lazy blue eyes seeming to seek something in hers.

‘ _Je t’adore_ ,’ she mouthed.

Percy let out a short sigh. ‘ _Je t’adore aussi_ ,’ he offered pathetically, kissing the palm of her hand. The automatic reply of ‘I love you too’ – even in French – just didn’t seem enough to convey what he felt for this woman.

‘What will your friends in England say?’

‘Those friends that count, already know,’ he told her. ‘And I’m sure you will quickly win over the others!’

‘Let’s leave Paris – let’s go to England – right now, Percy!’ Marguerite rushed, raising herself up on one elbow.

Percy responded with warm laughter, his mirth politely restrained as usual, so that he managed to sound both shy and slightly childish. Still, it was infectious, and soon Marguerite was giggling too, in her own musical tones.

‘I love how you embrace a challenge, _chère coeur_ ,’ he said earnestly. ‘I think that must be what drew us together, that spirit of ‘the world be demmed’! But – surely you must want to say your farewells properly?’

Marguerite’s excitement was briefly checked; she managed to keep the corners of her lips in a smile, and her bright eyes were only shaded for a moment, but Percy noticed the change.

‘There’s nothing here for me anymore,’ she said softly; ‘it has only ever been Armand and myself, and I know that he will visit as often as he can –’

A tear broke free from the shine in her eyes. ‘ _Dieu_ -’ She said under her breath, pulling her hand free from his to wipe her eyes. Percy eased her hand away and caught the moisture with the cuff of his shirt.

‘Let me,’ he said gently. ‘I never could bear to see a beautiful woman cry. It seems so unnatural.’

He kept his tone light, because he could see she was embarrassed, but Percy’s thoughts were in turmoil: were her tears because of him? Had he swept a young girl over-fond of romance and drama into a marriage that she wasn’t ready for? Had he mistaken the real Marguerite for Mademoiselle St Just of the _Comédie-Française_ , brave in her views when at home with her brother and acting the part when surrounded by her many adoring acquaintances? No, he didn’t believe so. She could be a very strong woman – every line of her exquisite face held a clue to that ardent nature. Her regal stature had attracted him two years earlier, and he had returned to find that her character more than matched her looks. But still – did she really love him?

‘I’m not upset, honestly,’ Marguerite said, taking a hitching breath and sitting up straight. ‘It’s only that so much has happened so quickly, as you say.’

He caught a glance of her classical profile, the lines of which suddenly seemed to have hardened. Percy couldn’t say why, but he was suddenly sure that she was referring to more than their spontaneous marriage in the Church of St. Roch the day before.

‘We must have been swept up in the spirit of this once fair city, m’dear,’ he offered. ‘Revolution is the ruling passion at the moment, who says it should only apply to politics?’

Marguerite flashed him such a look of fear and suspicion over her shoulder, that, although the intense emotions quickly dissolved from her lovely features, the effect startled Percy.

‘Marguerite, I’m sorry,’ he said, raising himself up behind her. He instinctively moved to hold her, but then checked that impulse, afraid to touch the rigid lines of her back and shoulders. ‘What right have I to talk to a daughter of France about the revolution? I haven’t lived through the changes, and you have.’

Marguerite looked to force herself to relax, leaning back on her hands, and letting her legs, which had been drawn up against her chest, dip towards Percy’s. She was facing him once again. ‘Yes – yes, everything has changed. I thought it would be for the best, but I wasn’t ready for how much _people_ would change – people I thought I knew. That’s why there’s nothing left here for me, except dear Armand.’

‘You rather sound like you’re running away, m’dear.’

A strange smile pulled at her mouth, and then she leaned in closer, closing her eyes. Percy regarded her face for a brief second – that flawless visage, with its straight brows and chiselled nose – wondering just how much he knew about _her_ , and then he kissed her: kissed the smooth forehead, the closed eyes, the tip of her nose, and the exquisite, silken lips. As she responded, snaking her arms around his neck, Percy only knew that he loved her, wholly and truly.

_Marguerite_

The cold, metallic October sky doused the room with its morning light. Marguerite lay in her husband’s embrace, staring at the thinly veiled windows until a purple shadow danced before her eyes. She lay on his side of the bed with her head resting just beneath his chin, and his arm slung loosely over the small of her back. She dared not raise her head in case she disturbed him, but she could hear his even breathing, and feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest beneath her.

She had given herself, once more, to him. Marguerite had not led a sheltered life in Paris – she had listened to mistresses, some of them famous, backstage at the Theatre, and joined in the gossip that usually took over at the end of her _salons_. She knew how marriage was regarded merely as a contract, made for money or connections, not love; how the word ‘obligation’ was heard more than ‘passion’ when husbands spoke of their wives. Yet Marguerite felt in her heart that she could never fall into that trap: she saw herself as choosing to share her life and her body with Percy, _her husband_ , rather than signing herself over as so much property. The comments made about his wealth, his title, and even his nationality – ‘ _Well, they do say the grass is greener in England_ ’ – did not make her doubt her choice. She knew why she had married him, even if others could only find ulterior motives.

Yet something was obscuring Marguerite’s happiness; a secret was looming overhead like a thundercloud, threatening to release the truth in a deluge that she couldn’t hope to stop. How could she tell Percy? To the ears of her ‘friends’, those members of her _salon_ who had been instrumental in the whole affair, it all sounded perfectly acceptable, and they had exonerated her from any blame: ‘ _The Marquis deserved it, Margot_ ,’ they had scoffed; ‘ _he brought it on himself, and would have faced justice eventually._ ’

Yet she couldn’t forgive herself or make herself believe that she had merely been a tool in somebody else’s machinations. How could she seek the understanding of a man who had been her husband for just under a day, when she could barely comprehend in her own tortured mind all that had happened?

There would soon be blood on her hands, she knew, and she had to tell Percy before somebody else did. Earlier, when he had talked of being swept up in the spirit of the revolution, she had been afraid that he had already heard, but then he had pacified her instead of confronting her, and so Marguerite had let the moment pass.

‘Percy?’ She whispered, finally raising her head. His eyes were closed, but she could tell from the barely perceptible flickering of those heavy eyelids that he was awake, or at least only napping. ‘Can I talk to you? It’s important.’

She expected some light-hearted quip, a schoolboy innuendo about what could be so urgent, but he said nothing. Slowly those blue eyes of his, which she had learned could betray his every innermost feeling unless he masked them somehow, opened to look into hers, and the expression that slipped over his features chilled her perhaps more than if he had pushed her away: his eyes had fallen into that lazy, distant gaze, and his mouth was held in a lightly mocking smirk. She had seen him study others from behind that mask – her zealous male acquaintances at her _salon_ , for instance – but she had never before been on the receiving end of his aloof regard, and it scared her.

‘Percy?’

‘La! m’dear,’ he sighed; ‘it’s far too early for serious discussion. I always feel that a similar rule should apply to debates and arguments as regulates the consumption of alcohol: never before ten.’

‘I don’t wish to argue, Sir Percy,’ she began, slowly, ‘only to share –’

He stopped her measured words with a finger held lightly against her lips. ‘We haven’t even reached a whole day of matrimony yet, Margot; words should be still be unnecessary.’

Marguerite let out a quick sigh of frustration and anxiety. How she wished she could keep delaying the inevitable. Perhaps if they were to leave Paris this very morning, nobody would be able to interfere! That flicker of hope was instantly quenched, however, as the voices that troubled her were not those of interfering gossips, but of her heart and her conscience. She studied those features before her, still so lovingly familiar beneath that sudden condescending expression, and wondered if he would accept what she told him. He had said that he had no right to talk of the revolution to a daughter of France, but did he really grasp the full truth in his words?

Marguerite tried to mentally piece together exactly how it had all come about: had she spoken out first, or had the denunciation been suggested to her? Either way, her actions hadn’t been intentionally malicious: she had wanted the Marquis brought to his knees but not to lose his head, and she had never imagined that his family would be implicated also. And surely, surely there was some truth in what her friends had told her – more people than she had known of the Marquis’ letters to Austria. St Cyr had taken a risk at a dangerous time, the eventual outcome almost guaranteed. But whether she told herself that her part in the denunciation had been only one link in a long chain, or that her love for her brother and her wish to avenge his humiliation had been twisted by a third party, Marguerite couldn’t escape that heavy burden of responsibility.

‘When will it be time for words?’ she asked, laying her head back against the rumpled linen of her husband’s shirt, surrendering for the moment to her fear.

Percy drew his arms tightly around her shoulders, kissing her hair and then tucking the crown of her head beneath his chin, in a strangely protective gesture. ‘ _Pas encore_ ,’ he murmured.

_Percy_

Not yet. He didn’t want to hear it from her beautiful lips. It wasn’t that he feared the rumours were true, only that he wouldn’t allow her to speak such sordid words. He didn’t believe it, had dismissed it entirely from the realms of possibility – or so he thought. But her nervousness, her tentative, testing words – what did they mean? What did she know about the arrest of the Marquis de St Cyr?

She was a republican, of course – theoretically, ideally, wholeheartedly. How could Marguerite St Just not put her entire being and soul into any cause she cared about? That was just her nature. And Percy knew that she was on friendly terms with a good few revolutionaries who would know how to fire that passion, and suggest practical outlets for her intelligent and creative support. He knew because he had met most of them. One of her circle in particular, ‘ _Citoyen_ ’ Chauvelin, had belied himself as the type to entice others into relieving his own hands of any deed that was slightly murky or in any way perilous.

Yet Percy had faith in his wife’s inner strength and natural goodness. Would such a woman forsake her very soul for a few strong words softly spoken? Would she let a creature like Chauvelin convince her that innocent people had to die for the future of the republic, and that she must be the one to betray them? What leverage could have made her –

_Enough!_ Percy tried to draw rein on his suspicions. She was resting in his arms, with her soft, wonderfully radiant hair dusting the shadow of his jaw, and her slim fingers cold against the skin beneath his shirt. How could his mind be anywhere but here, in this room, even if his wandering thoughts still involved her? She was real.

_But is her love?_ that same persistent doubt broke in. Almost against his will, he now wondered if he had underestimated her before: perhaps he had not forced _her_ into loving _him_. What if it the reverse was actually the case? Had the clever Mademoiselle St Just seen in Sir Percy Blakeney a way out of her troubles, a way to escape what she had done? She seemed to respond willingly, gladly, to his devotion, as any woman would to a man blinded by her beauty and impervious to her faults. He hadn’t really stopped to think, as he nurtured his own fantasies and indulged his deep passions, that perhaps their romance was not as balanced as he imagined. She was almost _gracious_ in her love, as though he were any one of an adoring audience bestowing applause and admiration on the exquisite actress. Whereas he, Percy recalled with a cringe of humiliation, had stepped all over his dignity to please her. Anything she wanted, he had gladly given. Friends disappointed, duties abandoned, reputation tarnished.

It was true that their respective upbringings had cast them in a slightly different mould to those who might stand in judgement; Percy had grown up almost entirely on the Continent, and had assumed a vast fortune very early on in life, whereas Marguerite had only had a devoted brother, lavishing the affection of two absent parents, to guide her. It was difficult to say how either should have behaved in a ‘normal’ courtship, formed and governed by convention, when both had been ruled by their hearts. Certainly Percy hadn’t worried when members of his own society – and at least one brave friend – had warned that he was being taken for a fool by the _bourgeois_ actress. If he had heard, the warning hadn’t registered immediately, but now his memory dredged up old advice and admonishments.

And yet he still loved her – whatever anybody else might think, whether she loved him, if she was guilty or innocent – passionately, intensely, entirely. For the moment, he could only breathe in the perfume of her hair and hold her against him.

When he stirred again and opened his eyes to the stark light of the room, he found himself alone in the low wooden bed. As he had lain on his back, lost in a troubled sleep, the covers had been neatly tucked in, and her pillow plumped and arranged alongside his. _Only a woman would take the time to be so neat_ , Percy mused vaguely.

He sat up, and combed his fingers through his dishevelled fair hair, pausing with his hands clasped against his head. The apartment was silent. Where had she gone? As he freed himself from the bed clothes and put his feet to the floor, he glanced around for any sign of her. Their entrance into the room had been somewhat hectic, he remembered that, but now his clothes were neatly folded on the closed trunk that contained her trousseau, and her wedding gown was arranged with infinite care over the back of a winged armchair that stood by the window. The delicate material of the dress, aged to a mellow cream with age, seemed to absorb the daylight and glow like a pearl. It had been her mother’s, she had told him, her eyes shining with emotion – but later she had laughed when he had worried about damaging the dress. _She would understand_ , had been the coquettish explanation.

‘Margot?’ he suddenly called, not expecting a response. Footsteps clicked across the floorboards of the parlour, however, and a moment later the door swung open. She stood in the corner, one hand still on the handle, waiting.

Percy took in the fact that she was dressed with a sense of finality that caused his heart to thud in his throat.

‘Did we sleep in, m’dear?’ he forced, his voice sounding scratchy as he battled with a mouth that was suddenly very dry.

‘Please hear me, Sir Percy,’ she announced, and he noticed that her voice was not exactly steady either. ‘I have to tell you this.’

She left the doorway, covering the _Savonnerie_ carpet with determined steps, only pausing when her knees met the frame of the bed. She looked down on him, with eyes that seemed unnaturally large and impenetrably deep, wringing her hands against the material of her skirts.

Percy hastily stood up. He was still only clothed in his shirt and wanted to seek what little control he could gain over the situation in those few extra inches of height. ‘Yes?’

She took a deep breath and then reached for his hands, which hung nerveless by his sides. ‘Percy –’

It seemed important to him that he should speak first: ‘Is this about the Marquis de St Cyr?’

Marguerite froze, startled by the abrupt question and his awareness of the situation. ‘Yes…’

‘About his arrest?’ His hands, which were resting in her trembling fingers like dead weights, now dropped back towards him. Everything in his behaviour towards her – in his voice, his expression, his posture – was suddenly in unison with her conscience.

Struggling with emotion, Marguerite turned away. She was all too aware of the setting – the rumpled bed clothes, her trousseau still packed away, the light of day on her mother’s dress. An hour ago suddenly felt like another age.

She tried to start at the beginning: ‘Armand –’ But although her mouth formed her brother’s name, her voice struggled to make a sound. _No, I can’t hide behind Armand_ , she thought, grateful for once that her words had dried up; _I must tell him my part first, I must own to my actions_.

‘I know the Marquis from the Theatre,’ Marguerite said in a curiously flat voice, as though she was reading aloud from an unfamiliar script. ‘He’s a familiar face there, a generous patron of the King’s players, and personally known to a few of the _societaires_. He used to bring his daughter to his box. _Angéle_ ,’ she almost spat the name.

‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘I’m trying to explain how our paths crossed – the Marquis and myself,’ she spoke slowly, steadily, trying to keep her emotion under control, ‘and the Theatre is where Armand first saw Angéle.’

‘Armand?’ Percy found himself wearily leaning against the bed for support. As he listened to Marguerite’s low voice, he suddenly felt lost, as though he had been thrown together with a complete stranger. ‘What does your brother have to do with your denouncement of the Marquis?’

She turned on her heel to face him, her faultless complexion mottled with angry blotches of red, and her eyes welling up with tears. ‘I knew that somebody had told you!’ Marguerite blurted. ‘But I never thought that you would _believe_ them!’

‘So they were lying?’ Percy met her outburst calmly, striving to mask the sudden giddiness he felt as he waited for her response. He watched her slender frame shudder with violent passion as she staggered back from him, her eyes betraying that she was more afraid than angry.

‘How can you ask me that?’ she whispered.

‘Is it true, Marguerite?’ he repeated, his voice shaking. Why was she doing this to him? All it needed was one word, and this whole nightmare could be over.

‘Yes!’

Percy’s breath caught in his throat, and he forgot how to swallow. He actually had to concentrate so as not to choke before her, not to let her see how she had caught him off guard. God knows he had thought about this possibility ever since learning of the St Cyrs, but just as men talk of death without considering their own, he had obviously never accepted it in his heart. That one word, and the defiant way she had spat it out at him, numbed Percy’s senses. He didn’t think about the consequences, because he couldn’t think at all.

Marguerite slid down onto the edge of the bed that was between her and the floor when her legs gave way. Her vision was blurred with hot tears that flowed onto her cheeks when she squeezed her eyes shut. She didn’t want to cry in front of him, but she was equally thankful that she had an excuse not to look at him. That fleeting look of horror on his ashen face still reflecting in her mind was enough.

He had wanted the truth. He had fired those ugly words – accusations – at her for a reason. Obviously, her fears had been correct: somebody had told Percy about the connection between the beautiful republican actress and the betrayed nobleman, and he had instantly condemned her. Why he had chosen to play with her – why he had gone ahead with the wedding, why he had consummated the marriage! – she didn’t understand, but she knew he didn’t want to hear her say anything more than she had given him. In his mind, she was guilty. Well, now he had his answer, and she was trapped as his wife.

Gripping the foot of the bed for support, she rose to leave. That feeling of weightlessness seemed to have passed, and Marguerite hoped that her legs would not fail her. Wiping the tears from her cheeks and blotting her eyes, she started for the door.

‘I shall be at home,’ she announced, meaning her old rooms with Armand. It had been a slip of the tongue, not intended as a comment on their marriage, but Marguerite neither corrected herself nor turned to find out his reaction. Indeed, she still refused to look at him.

Not knowing what else to say, she simply walked out of the room and closed the door.

_Marguerite_

‘You must have something, _petite mere_ ,’ her brother’s persistent entreaties eventually broke into Marguerite’s thoughts. She seemed to be studying the flames in the fireplace, but her gaze was locked somewhere in the middle distance. When she dragged her eyes, which were red and prickly after a morning of bitter tears, to look at her brother, she saw that he was holding a cup in his extended hands.

‘ _Chocolat_ ,’ he explained, although she could smell the sweet aroma for herself.

‘I could go out and get something stronger, if you would prefer -’

She forced a smiled at his worried ministrations, ‘No, this is better, _merci,_ Armand.’

‘I thought it would be like when we were younger, Margot, and you would always bring _chocolat_ to comfort me,’ he began, studying his sister’s tired features; ‘and it seemed to work for everything, too – for childish scrapes, when I should really have known better, for when Aunt Marie would punish us … for _mal à la coeur …_ ’

Marguerite turned back to the fire, unable to meet his eyes. ‘So long ago,’ she sighed.

There was a third presence in the room: the heavy weight of the unspoken words on both their minds, which Armand dared not ask of, and which Marguerite would not share. This was the day after his sister’s wedding, and Armand’s heart ached to know what had happened to make her seek shelter in her old rooms, but he forced himself to be patient enough to wait.

‘Your journey here was uneventful?’ he asked. ‘There has been some trouble – it is getting more and more dangerous to walk the streets, it seems.’

Marguerite clutched the warm cup between her hands, letting the rising steam caress her face with its aroma of childhood memories. ‘Yes,’ she agreed distantly, and then, realising what Armand had been asking, ‘That is to say, no – I was not confronted by anybody.’

He laughed bitterly, and added, more to himself, ‘I suspect everyone is still at the _Place de Carrousel_ , that would explain why it is so quiet –’

Marguerite started, splashing hot liquid over the rim of the cup in her hands.

‘Oh, _chérie_ –’ Armand gasped, taking the rest of the drink from her, ‘Let me get something to treat your hands, it is not too hot? –’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she cut in. ‘Were you there this morning, Armand? At the _Place_? Did you see?’

‘Margot –’

‘Armand, _did you see_?’

He had been on the point of rising to help her clean away the spilled chocolate; now he slumped back onto the seat beside her. ‘Yes, I saw. But Margot, sweet one, I have told you – none of this is your fault! These are the times we live in, and we both know that the Marquis was guilty. He was a traitor, Marguerite.’

She buried her face in her hands. ‘I tried,’ she mumbled, ‘I tried to stop it.’

Armand was caught briefly between his own political beliefs, influenced by the dedicated, passionate personalities at the head of the revolution, and his love for his sister. She had tried to save the Marquis de St Cyr, a nobleman who would have delivered his country to the Austrians to escape justice. He took a deep breath, and then said, ‘Margot, you couldn’t have prevented this.’

‘I could have held my tongue,’ she said bitterly, dropping her hands. Her eyelids were red and swollen, with dark shadows beneath her sad eyes.

‘Then somebody else would have told the tribunal, and the Marquis would still have perished this morning,’ he replied, a little cruelly.

‘The Marquis and his family,’ she corrected, absently twisting the bright gold band around her finger.

Armand frowned. ‘How did you know they had all been –?’

‘I asked to be told, if nothing more could be done, if it became inevitable. A friend brought a message to Sir Percy’s …’ Marguerite faltered as she spoke her husband’s name and glanced at the ring beneath her fingertips; ‘To the apartment. This morning.’

Her brother gasped. ‘But – does that mean Sir Percy knows?’

Marguerite’s mouth twisted into a cruel sneer. ‘He knew already.’

Armand thought he understood now. ‘But you explained what happened – how you had been used, how –’

‘There is nothing to explain,’ she concluded.

‘You must tell him!’ Armand pleaded, seeking her hands. ‘Tell him that your foolish brother once fell in love –’

Marguerite could only shake her head. She had tried to explain, but Sir Percy Blakeney evidently couldn’t understand what her brother had suffered. What it was to love.

‘But why, Armand, if he knew and disapproved of my actions so, why did he marry me?’ Her brother watched her distractedly loosening and replacing the wedding ring on her finger. ‘When did he first hear the rumours? Did he know then what the tribunal of the Assembly would do about the St Cyrs, Armand? Did he know all along that I had sent them to their deaths? _Mon Dieu_!’

Her fragile composure broken completely, Marguerite sank into her brother’s arms as her body was shaken by silent sobs. In spite of her leading role in the whole drama, she was forced to admit to herself that she didn’t understand the direction of the play. She didn’t know what had made her husband’s attitude towards her change so suddenly. If it was because her words had brought the Marquis to the attention of the authorities, then she didn’t know whether Percy was merely taking a moral stance, or if he was personally involved. She wasn’t aware that he knew the St Cyrs, but then both men had moved in the same circles. And how had Percy learned of their fate? Marguerite had used her circle of friends and useful acquaintances to keep her informed, and to try and intervene, if possible. Of course, there was always gossip, but she and Percy had barely been apart since the eve of their wedding. She was, however, asking herself the wrong questions – it didn’t matter _how_ he had learned of what she had done, but only if there was a future left for them now that he did.

Marguerite broke free from her brother’s protective embrace. She rose and moved on trembling legs to the gilt-edged mirror hung above the mantelpiece. Her appearance was quite startling, and Marguerite thought that, if she were to appear before her devoted audience at the Theatre in her present state, they would think her masked for a part in a provincial troupe! The bloodshot whites of her eyes and the purple hollows beneath them made the fluid blue of her irises appear unnaturally bright and feverish. Her skin, usually so clear, was still blemished with heated emotion, and her cheeks were streaked with tears. She began to reset some of her curls by twisting strands of her auburn hair tightly around a finger, and then she smoothed back the damp hair on her brow.

She was about to ask Armand for a basin of water to soothe her flushed skin, when she realised what she was doing – making herself presentable. But for whom?

Marguerite turned and found Armand regarding her from the couch with rapt attention. ‘What am I going to do, Armand?’

‘Talk to him, Margot,’ came the weary reply.

‘He doesn’t want to listen,’ she argued.

‘Why would he marry you, Marguerite, only to turn against you so easily?’

‘I don’t know,’ she mumbled, missing the appeal to logic in her brother’s challenge.

‘He loves you!’ Armand stood up. ‘This is all some ridiculous misunderstanding, I’m sure. Go to him, _petite mere_ , and you will see.’

‘I cannot,’ Marguerite told him resolutely.

‘Did he tell you to leave?’

‘No,’ she answered quickly, ‘but it was the only thing I could do –’

‘– to preserve your pride,’ Armand finished for her. ‘Yes, I know you, Margot – you were challenged, and spoke in the heat of the moment. You ran away from yourself.’

‘Leave me alone!’ Marguerite snapped. ‘I see I came to the wrong person.’

‘Where else would you go, Marguerite? Who knows you like I do?’

She sighed. He was right, and that was the problem: nobody knew her very well. All her life, she had maintained a respectable distance, allowing only her brother to see the player behind the role, and even he was not allowed into her deepest confidence. It was not a conscious barrier; she had just never needed anybody enough. Only now was she facing the consequences of living her life on the surface: marriage to a man she really knew nothing about.

She couldn’t even admit to herself that she loved Percy – a career on the stage had taught her that words and gestures meant little. She was in love with the pure ideal of love, and this she thought she had found in her English baronet. But perhaps instead of awaking from a deep sleep to marry her prince, like Perrault’s _La Belle au Bois dormant_ , Marguerite had unwittingly become Molière’s Agnès, too inexperienced to realise that she could not just follow her heart.

Percy had been utterly under her spell, captivated by her beauty and her brave words. But other men had been drawn by her large blue eyes and radiant hair, only to have the door politely closed on their compliments and bouquets. And when Percy had succeeded, Marguerite’s own words had become the undoing of her happiness.

_Percy_

The light that had flooded the bedroom earlier in the day now filled the main reception room of the spacious apartments. Percy stood by the window, staring alternately at the Paris life beyond and at his own reflection. A crumpled sheet of paper, nipped between his forefinger and middle finger, rested against his thigh. _‘Heaven only knows your motive, M.,’_ Percy mentally reread the lines of the letter, _‘but I am afraid your gesture will never be matched in deed. The Marquis and his family cannot be saved – they are to perish this very morning in the_ Carrousel. _’_

‘Heaven may understand,’ Percy told the suddenly oppressive silence, ‘but I do not.’

He had been the first to receive the letter, intended for Marguerite, earlier that morning. Frank, his trusted valet and only servant whilst in Paris, had apparently fought an internal battle over whether or not to disturb his master, only choosing to err on the side of caution because the courier had told him that the message was urgent. With his bride resting in his arms, Percy had dextrously opened out the hand-delivered note, unaddressed and unsealed in the sender’s haste. He had read the words that were now echoing in his brain, before calmly passing the note back to Frank, with an instruction to leave it on the tray in the hall. He didn’t know if Marguerite was aware that he had read the missive, but later, after her tearful departure, he had found the letter hastily twisted into a taper and poked into the grate of the fireplace.

_So clever_ , Percy thought to himself, _but what happens now?_

He still loved her, if not quite as blindly as he had done mere hours before. Physically, he fancied he could still smell the perfume of her hair, taste her lips, hear her musical laugh. Emotionally, he was lost. The sudden confrontation had left him dazed – even though the fate of the Marquis must have been hanging over both of them throughout the wedding ceremony and their all too brief honeymoon, he had been unprepared for the note and her unabashed declaration of guilt. Marguerite, too, he believed, had been unaware that he suspected anything until he had pre-empted her confession. _Until she read the note,_ he thought. Why did it all matter so? He didn’t know why she had denounced the Marquis – he had initially thought it purely political, at best patriotic, and even now could only wonder as to any personal connection between the murdered family and the St Justs – but the truth was it didn’t really concern him. Rash pride had resulted in his taking the moral high ground, and stunned disbelief had let her walk away without an explanation, because what had really stung him was her duplicity. She had waited until she was trapped before owning to him so momentous a secret, relying on her tears and his slavish devotion to soften the blow. If the Marquis had somehow escaped death, would she have continued to hide from him this chapter of her past? Percy couldn’t help but feel that Marguerite’s confession had been defensive rather than penitent, and that she really felt no remorse for what had befallen the _ci-devant_ noble family. After all, she was a republican, and it was revenge firing this country’s new politics, beneath all the idealistic talk of liberty and fraternity – revenge for past generations, revenge for yesterday, what difference did it make?

Percy closed his eyes. He balled the paper he was holding into the palm of his hand, turned, and blindly threw it in the direction of the fireplace. He needed her here, he needed her to tell him that it was all right to love her, that this whole revelation hadn’t changed who she was. But where was she, for this first complex test of their union? Hiding on the Rue de Richelieu with her brother. Percy decided to wait. He would have Frank pack her dress away, and then let Marguerite be the one to decide if Armand should send for his sister’s possessions, or if she and her trousseau were to accompany him across the channel. He would no longer sacrifice his dignity for her love. If, once her famous wit was no longer marred by her temper, she chose to return, he would not make it difficult for her. Perhaps they would come to an arrangement, but he would never let her see how much he suffered, how much she had hurt him. He had placed all in her – faith, love, happiness – and she had carelessly accepted what she could neither appreciate or give in return.

_Armand_

‘I hope the crossing will not be too rough,’ Armand spoke, watching his sister’s profile as she looked out to the horizon. Her features were serene in the early morning light, but she would not meet her brother’s gaze, and had barely spoken during the carriage ride to the coast. Sir Percy, too, seemed unusually restrained and brusque, even for an Englishman.

‘It should be passable once we get to the _Daydream_ ,’ Percy answered distantly.

Husband and wife stood before each other, but both were looking out to sea. Percy was watching for the boat that would take them to his yacht and then on to England, whilst Marguerite’s eyes merely reflected the waves that would soon bear her away from her brother and the country of her birth.

Armand was still unsure whether his sister really wanted to leave, but it was too late to ask the question now. After a fortnight of false starts, and many changes of heart, Marguerite had finally returned to her husband. When she next saw her brother, it was to tell him that she was leaving for Dover early the next morning. She had told him no more – whether she had explained about the Marquis and if Percy understood, or even if she was happy. But to one who knew Marguerite as Armand did, her inability to look him in the eye seemed answer enough for how she was feeling. A consummate actress, Marguerite’s emotions were locked in her eyes – she could control her beautiful face, regulate her voice, and move with confidence, but the only way to disarm her eyes was to turn them away.

‘I am afraid the boat might be slightly uncomfortable, m’dear,’ Percy drawled, as he caught sight of Briggs, his skipper, returning to the harbour, ‘but it is only a short trip. I’m afraid we cannot wait for the tide to come in.’

‘Thank you for your consideration, sir,’ Marguerite answered. She turned her head to her brother, and glanced at him, but then looked to the floor as she said, ‘ _Au revoir_ , Armand.’

He pulled her to him, and she gasped with the pressure of unexpressed sentiment. ‘Dear Armand!’ She whispered in his ear. ‘Promise you will come to me as soon as you are able?’

‘Of course, sweet one,’ Armand told her, releasing her to share a kiss on each cheek, ‘but you will need time alone with Percy first, to adjust –’

‘No!’ Marguerite pleaded. ‘Armand …’

‘Lady Blakeney?’

Armand looked up, and Marguerite turned to see Sir Percy Blakeney waiting with one hand held out to his wife, whilst Briggs quickly secured the boat against the landing jetty in the background. Marguerite inclined her head in acknowledgement, and turned once more to her brother, offering a small smile over her shoulder.

Armand’s parting memory of the sister who had never really left his side since she was born was of a tall, slender young woman, neatly dressed in a travelling coat and grey silk petticoat, taking the hand of her new English husband and being gallantly aided into a waiting boat. He had hoped for a last glimpse of her glorious red-gold curls, hidden beneath her wide-brimmed hat, or of her large blue eyes, averted from his gaze, as she sailed away from him. But without the happiness that lit her looks from within, Armand was content to remember his sister as the feted actress, loved by her audience, and only worry about her in her new life.


End file.
